Chapter 8 #3
"Yeah, that's it." Dad was quiet for a moment or two.
"He'd bring a whole cooler full of hot dogs and fat-ass steaks and cans of beans, and we'd cook on the fire and go fishing, paddle around in the canoe, swim in ice-cold glacier-melt rivers. He'd always be up before us, always. We’d wake up, and there'd be Pop with his special camping mug, a battered old tin thing that he only used at the campsite. Still got it somewhere. He’d sit and fill that mug from the percolator that was always on the edge of the coals, all day long. We’d hike out into the bush, and Dad would teach us about plants and all that shit, point out animals we'd never have seen otherwise, stuff like that.
Teaching us woodcraft, basically. We'd get back to camp and cook up the dogs and make hot chocolate.
" He shook his head, his voice thick. "Haven't thought about those days in fuckin'… decades."
He eyes Dunc and me, frowning. "Jesus. Just realized something—I'm older now than he ever was.
" He sat forward, pulling his feet down, tossing back the last of his beer.
"Dane, son, I know this is gonna sound like bullshit, cliché advice, but you gotta follow your heart.
Just don't leave your head out of it—your big head, I mean.
The little head is a terrible decision maker. "
"Are we talking about my purpose in life or Lindsey?" I asked.
He sniffed softly. "Both, I guess."
"And what about when your head and your heart say different things?"
A long pause. "I've found in circumstances like that, that situations have a way of making the choice for you."
"Not sure how I feel about that," I said.
"Hear that, for sure. Unfortunately, life doesn't ever really give much of a shit how you feel about it."
"What was your mom like?" Duncan asked.
Dad, forty-some years later, went misty-eyed, cleared his throat.
"Mom was…Jesus. Everything Dad wasn't, which was a good thing, in both directions.
She was an easy laugh. I think to this day, Bax's sense of humor comes from his incessant drive as a little kid to make Mom laugh—which he did, frequently and uproariously.
He got in trouble as much as he made her laugh, and sometimes she'd have to pass off discipline to Dad because she couldn't hide her laughter.
She was so beautiful. Her hair was almost to her waist. I remember being super little, like, Zane must've been—shit, three?
Bax was just a baby. It's one of those super dreamy memories, y'know?
Like, it could very well be one of those memories you've partly invented.
" He cast his eyes toward the sky, blinking hard.
"A band was playing downstairs—you could hear the hum and thump through the floor.
The chatter of the crowd under my feet, the sound of the band on the weekends.
Zane had passed out on Mom and Dad's bed with a sippy-cup—it had a red lid.
Mom was sitting at her vanity. It had the light bulbs around the frame of the mirror.
She was wearing one of Dad's flannels; Dad was so big and she was so tiny that it was like a dress on her.
I think she actually did wear one of his shirts as an outfit once,—there's a photo somewhere.
She belted it and left it partially unbuttoned.
Anyway. She was brushing her hair and humming some song.
Her vanity was the only light, so the room was dark and warm.
She had her hair down over her shoulder and she was dragging this super old brush through it—must've been an antique or…
or an heirloom. I think it might be in a box in the attic here.
I wonder. She always had her hair up, braided, and in a bun.
That was her hairstyle, and she almost never varied it except on special occasions.
I think the memory is so distinct and special because it was one of the few times I saw her with her hair down.
" He sniffled, wiped at his face; Dad didn't cry almost ever, but the few times I have seen it, he didn't try to hide it or seem embarrassed.
In fact, the only other time I've seen him cry is when our dog, Bomber, died.
It was one of those classic cases of Dad didn't want the dog but Mom did and so they comprised and got the dog.
Bomber had been a rescue—he was three or four when he got him, and he was, fittingly, a mutt of indeterminate breed mix, and a rambunctious troublemaker that drove Dad absolutely nuts.
Having a dog like that in a three-bedroom apartment over a bar was a pretty wild idea.
We hadn't moved to the house, yet—it was almost done being built, as I recall.
I think Bomber was at least part sheepdog of some sort, because he used to love herding us kids around the yard, after we moved to the house, nipping playfully at our heels.
He got sick pretty abruptly when I was thirteen or so, and passed pretty quickly thereafter.
We were all devastated, but none more so than Dad, who, despite all his bitching about Bomber destroying his slippers and chewing on doorframes and barking his fool head off every time a seaplane went overhead, loved the shit out of that dog.
We never got another dog after that, if that tells you anything.
"Mom was quiet and mellow, for the most part,” Dad said.
“Where Dad was more…taciturn, a man of few words as a rule, Mom was more just quiet.
Soft-spoken. She and Dad…I don't remember them having tons of conversations.
I think their relationship was more about the quality of silence.
Being content to just be near each other.
They were super physically affectionate, though.
" He looked at me. "Dane, son. Just live your life.
If this girl, Lindsey, is supposed to be in your life, she will be.
I am not a religious or spiritual man, and I'm not sure how much I believe in fate either.
Our lives are what we make of them. That said, shit happens.
People make inexplicable decisions. People do shit that surprises us.
And women…? Son, I've loved and lived with your mother for more than twenty years, and in that time, we've only spent a few weekends apart, total.
And she's still a mystery to me, in some ways.
Like, I know her inside and out. I know how she thinks.
I know when she needs space and when she needs me close.
I get to thinkin' I've got the woman all figured out, and then she does something that shocks the shit outta me, and I realize I don't know dick.” He looks at me.
"The reason I say that is you may have the most genuine feelings in the world for this girl, but you don't really know her.
That's okay—love doesn't require you to know the person. Sometimes, you meet someone, and your hearts or souls or whatever just…know each other. I can’t explain it, but I've felt it myself and seen it time and again.
You don't know this girl. You don't know what she's thinking.
Shit, I'm not sure you even know what she's feeling. "
"I don't," I said.
"If she made it clear she's not in a place to deal with her feelings for you, there isn't much you can do except respect that.
There's a time to fight for the woman you love—even if that means fighting her in some way.
You ask me, this doesn't seem like that.
It seems like a situation where you gotta let her confront her demons and hope she finds her way back to you.
Which means there ain't shit you can do.
I know that sucks dog balls, and I'm sorry. "
Dunc and I aren't twins—we're Irish twins, born less than a year apart.
Although something tells me that term is probably associated with some sort of negative stereotype about Irish people, and I shouldn't use it.
The point is, even though we aren't real twins, we are close enough that we can sometimes communicate silently through looks.
And sometimes, we can just feel what the other is thinking.
Point in case, I saw Dunc open his mouth, and I just knew he was about to say something about Bomber; I met his eyes and shook my head. We'd probed into enough of Dad's painful memories for one conversation.
As much as it sucked, I recognized the truth in Dad's advice. I’m convinced Lindsey has feelings for me—as strong as mine for her. But if she's unwilling or unable to face them or handle them or whatever, there's not much I can do to change the situation.
All I can do is go about my life and…wait.
Hope.
Dream.
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